


Assassin's Paradigm

by in_too_deep_geronimo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, HLV from Mary's POV, Kinda slow burn I guess, M/M, Mary isn't that big of a bitch, My First Fanfic, Please be gentle, This actually will be Johnlock, but also totally critique me please, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_too_deep_geronimo/pseuds/in_too_deep_geronimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A.G.R.A. was void of emotion, it’s what made her such an effective assassin; Mary Morstan had far too much emotion in her persona, enough that some permeated Ava-Grace Rachel Albescu’s firm resolve and barriers she’d built. As Mary Elizabeth Morstan truly fell in love with John Hamish Watson, her love bled through and a part of A.G.R.A. began to fall too.  </p>
<p>**From the beginning of S3 Episode:3, HLV, from Mary Morstan's POV. Follows Mary throughout the episode and past that into the future as she watches John and Sherlock get together, gets out of Moriarty's web once and for all, and moves to a place in her life where killing people isn't okay**</p>
<p>***RATING MAY GO UP, I'VE NOT YET DECIDED***</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assassin's Paradigm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first fic I've ever written. I actually came up with a playlist for this idea before I began to write, so I'll add a link in the end notes for that. I would like to thank the wonderful Ariane DeVere for her transcripts she posted on Livejournal (I'll link this at the end as well)--they saved my life for this fic!!!!! I apologize for any grammatical errors (esp. verb-tense agreement, I am so so sorry) as any and all mistakes are my own (unbeta-ed as of now, but actively looking/asking for one!). I hope I didn't embarrass the fandom and that you enjoy the fic :D
> 
> *Disclaimer: We all know I don't own any of this, Mofftiss and Vertue do. I'm just messing around with their characters*

Muscles twitched, ready to kill—one eye trained on the scope, earpiece streaming direct commands to the brain. He, the target, turned and stared. Not off into empty space but straight down the scope into the threat. _“Dispose of him however you see fit. Just make sure he’s not around to distract Sherl, hmmm?”_ The faint Irish lilt mocked her hesitance to take the shot, as chlorine from the pool wafted up into the night sky, humidity dulling her senses. Deep cerulean met hers, as she made eye contact. He seemed accepting or resigned to his own fate, but fearful of the demise of another. Sobs wracked her body as she laid on a rooftop in the gown worn at their wedding— _It’s not fair,  it was never supposed to be like this, ohgodohgodohgod, I’m sorry , I’m so sorry_ —and dutifully aimed and pulled the trigg—

OoOoOoO

Mary woke with a start from her own nightmares as she felt John leap out of the bed to get the door. He’d been missing Sherlock as of late and she knew from his restless dreams the past month. _‘He’s just like a dog to its master, he is to Sherlock’_ she thought, laying back. The lies were becoming too jumbled; Mary Morstan mixed with about seven different aliases from the past, not to mention her actual life before becoming an assassin. Ears pricked, she heard the door creak on its hinges (not much, but more than audible for a trained sniper to hear) and could practically feel John’s disappointment radiate from him when it only turned out to be their neighbor and Mary’s friend, Kate Whitney. She was crying because of her crack head son went missing. Again.  The floorboards of their flat gently creaked as Mary heard John open the door to Kate. _‘Better get up before John’s left with a crying female to try and help this early in the morning’._ Normally he had impeccable bedside manner, but his still fresh dismay at Sherlock’s absence rattled around his brain and confused his thoughts further. Mary finally appeared next to John in the doorway. “Invite her in?” she asked John while looking shocked and concerned, as if they both hadn’t heard her muffled sobs from the path outside. Mary was quite proud of her “sympathetic and reassuring” act (though it wasn’t too hard, she genuinely liked Kate, even if her son was a bit of a fuck-up) as Kate got out between gasping sobs the tale of her son, Isaac, who got into cocaine and left to the drug den to go back to his old vice. During this, John made tea for Kate and Mary, his go-to remedy for distressed people he doesn’t really know how to help [Sherlock] and re-entered the room and the conversation. He only caught the name, Issac, but had heard Mary talking about Kate and her son some time or another.

“He’s the drugs one, yeah?” He stands up and begins pacing again, a sign that he realised maybe that wasn’t the best way to affirm his thoughts. Kate’s face wobbles then crumples soon after as she was reminded of her son’s dubious activities. “Er, yeah, nicely put, John,” Mary grits out. Suddenly it seemed so selfish of him to be buried in his grief while a friend was going through a crisis. John stopped pacing momentarily to stare decisively at Kate, “Look, is it Sherlock Holmes you want? Because I’ve not seen him in ages.” Sharp ripples of irritation jabbed her brain with the exaggeration. Was she really that bad of a substitute for Sherlock? “About a month,” She put in dryly, not wanting Kate to think that…that, _what_ exactly? Mary wasn’t sure, but it irked her regardless. John went back to his pacing and she could see the comment had bothered him.  Kate’s face screwed up in confusion and the crying calmed enough for her to ask, “Who’s Sherlock Holmes?” Mary looked up at John with the ghost of a smirk playing across her face. “See? That _does_ happen,” she stated, somewhat happy that at least someone out there didn’t know of the genius because being compared to him is a bitch that Mary’d rather not go through at all times (*cough* John). Sensing a bit of the tension between Mary and John, Kate continued on about Issac. “There’s a—a place they all go to, him and his…friends.” She breathes in shakily and continues. “They all…do whatever they do……shoot up, whatever you call it.”  John blinks. “Where is he?” he asks. “It’s a house. It’s a dump. I mean, it’s practically falling down.” Kate doesn’t seem that concerned anymore, more calm and resigned that this is her life. Mary can sympathize and does by putting a hand on her knee; there have been times when Mary knew maybe she wouldn’t survive an op and felt the same dulled sensitivity. “No, the address.”  Mary looks up at John—his face hardened but excited underneath—and wonders if maybe this is what he looked like when he went off to war. John keeps his eyes on Kate, but it would be impossible for him to not feel Mary’s eyes burning into him. “Where, exactly?” he prompted. She faintly hears Kate rattle off an address to John and saying goodbye to Kate, she was too deep in thought, trying to remember.

Perhaps she should have not been surprised when John volunteered; she couldn’t remember where her informant said Sherlock was. Mary had eyes and ears all around the globe, giving her dependable information only due to threats if they didn’t comply. Yes, Mary knew Sherlock was on cocaine again. Yes, Mary knew it really was for a case or an experiment of sorts. She was also aware he was starting an investigation on Charles Augustus Magnussen. At least Janine had told her as much (Janine was the only friend Mary has had since this whole killing business began and was a pretty good mate, she was completely sincere in wanting her to be her maid-of-honour, even if her brother was the psychotic Jim Moriarty). Mary was given time to see that Sherlock was digging too far in Magnussen’s affairs, too close to her secrets. Fear, well… not quite fear; she had been trained to not fear years ago, but felt something akin to panic as the door creaked again and John descended the steps to get to the car. _John finding Sherlock.  John going back to Sherlock and leaving her. Sherlock finding Mary’s well-kept secrets. John knowing of them as well, through association with Sherlock._ That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.If he were to ever find out, it would be on Mary’s terms: when, where, and how much information uncovered. She got up abruptly and went out after John, to convince him to either stay or for her to go with; padding over the slightly groaning floorboards, opening the squeaking door, and going down the stairs rapidly to meet him on the kerb.

“Seriously,” she half-stated and half-queried while squinting in the morning sun, trying to watch John as best she could. “Why not? She’s not going to the police. Someone’s got to get him,” he replied while turning to face her. Mary paused at the gate to the sidewalk and looked him over to see if he had any other motive beyond the adrenalin rush. “Why you?”—She genuinely wanted to know what he’d try and answer with. “I’m being neighbourly.” Ha, that was a crock of shit; all John had said about the neighbours since moving here was how bloody annoying they could be at times! “Since when?!” Honestly, Mary was a little disappointed that out of all the excuses he could’ve used, he chose the least likely one—she always thought that if you were going to lie, you’d better lie well or not at all. John turned again and huffed out a small laugh, “Since now. Since this exact moment.”  Oh God. Why couldn’t he even admit that he was only going for the thrill of it? It was the lies that she was most irritated by (yes, yes, Mary knows she’s a hypocrite with a double-standard, but at least she’ll admit it unlike _some_ people: *cough* John *cough*). “Why are you being so…?” _‘Why are you being such an arse right now? I already have high hormones. Do you want to know why I’m so good at patching injuries up—I’m usually the one inflicting them!’_ She gestured wildly to try and get her point of confusion and frustration across and into that big stupid head of his. John had his hand gripped on the driver’s side door and whipped his head around to look at Mary. “What?” Yes, John, that is the question, isn’t it. The things Mary would’ve given to have her small jackknife on her just then; really, the actual list was quite disturbing, but the top thing then was her pancreas [black market prices could be _very_ forgiving]. “I dunno. What’s the matter with you?” Mary asked yet again, she was slowly becoming more and more exasperated with the man. John seemed to have had pent up frustration too. “There’s _nothing_ the matter with me,” was loudly hurtled back from him. He registered what he had just said and quickly followed with, “Imagine I said that without shouting.” “I’m trying.” The whole entire conversation was looping yet again, so she decided to head for the passenger side as fast as she could. “No, you can’t come. You’re pregnant.” ‘ _Huh, John, did you deduce that from my fucking huge stomach or was it the colour of the pyjamas I chose today?’_ Shutting the door and beginning to strap herself in, Mary said “You can’t _go_. I’m pregnant.” John looked off for a second then got in and started the ignition.

OoOoOoO

As they pulled away from the kerb, Mary could feel John’s excitement ratchet up a bit more at the potential adrenalin high. The majority of the drive was quiet, none of their usual backseat driving or commentary on the world blurring by in the windows. _‘Wow, Mary, you always pick the good guys, the ones who rely on thrill trips to continue living’_ she mused silently with an internal eye roll as they turned down a quieter street; Suburban, but obviously more dilapidated than other parts of London. Cutting the engine so he could leave, Mary once again felt John’s exuberance to go into the drug den and find Isaac Whitney downright palpable. She tried to remember a time when John was this excited just with her, only to find none. She was an assassin, but damn if that didn’t sting just a bit. _‘Why can’t he ever be happy with me?’_ Doubts swirled in her mind—what if John already knew what she was? What if he just kept up the illusion to please his Mum who already disapproved of Harry years ago? What if she was his “beard”? Amidst the tumultuous thoughts, one small voice (probably the devil himself) nudged quietly, _‘It’s because you’re not **Sherlock** ’_. Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes, the man to defy gender, defy the expected, and the only person to successfully twine himself around John’s heart. Mrs. Hudson had been the first to see it, but at the pool where Mary was ordered to aim (ready to fire) at John on Moriarty’s command, she had witnessed it firsthand. Finding John after Sherlock’s fall would’ve been proof enough, had she not been at the pool that night. John was broken; not all that alive, but not dead yet either. There have been few times Mary has been proud of her actions—keeping John alive was one of them. She first accidentally bumped into John after being hired the day before at the clinic.

OoOoOoO

_He walked briskly down the hall to get through the appointments left and shuffle back to Baker Street for an appointment of his own with expensive whiskey Mycroft had given to Sherlock years ago, John had found it and gotten black-out drunk every night since. He read the next patient’s notes while walking, only paying partial attention to his surroundings. A door opened and John finally looked up, but not soon enough to see the woman hurtling herself out of exam room three. As they collided, John dropped his notes, and she (Nurse? Receptionist? He couldn’t tell…Sherlock could’ve though) dropped a few files. Tired from drunken nights and the sheer labour of grieving Sherlock, John stood there dumbly, trying to his way out of the shock of contact. She leaned down to pick up both sets of paperwork and handed them to him with a smile that jerked him out of his stupor._

_“There you are! I’m so sorry, guess I should watch out a bit more, yea? Although in my defense, you weren’t paying much more attention than a severed toe just now!”_

_He blinked in response and felt a dull pang. It was such a Sherlock sort of a thing to say that the pain lingered even after the short exchange._

_Taking his silence as a sign to continue, she grinned again and said “Hello. I’m Mary Morstan. New here as of yesterday, still trying to get the hang of the clinic. You’re…Doctor…Watson…?”_

_John looked mildly surprised at her correct guess, but Sherlock had made everyone else seem so pedestrian and dull. Still did. “Erm, yes. Yes, I am Doctor Watson. John Watson, actually.” He stuck his hand out for her to shake. “Nice to meet you.”_

_Mary shook his hand enthusiastically. “Well, I’d best be on my way, wouldn’t want to be fired for tardiness on the second day of the job! See you around, yeah?”_

_John nodded his head and held up a hand to wave as he watched her leave. He quickly catalogued her features: short platinum-blonde hair, kaleidoscopic eyes (blue-green-grey [impossibly Sherlock]), and a kind smile. Taking a deep breath, John decided to give his weary brain a rest from the engulfing melancholy that followed reminders of Sherlock. It would be difficult to try and purge his brain of Sherl—Him, but knew he could never get over it if he kept dwelling on Him. Hm, Mary Morstan: ‘See you around’. She had exuded confidence [Sherlo—], wit [Sher—], was attention grabbing [Sh—], and seemed to be sociable. In short, she was an ideal candidate to help him through this, this ‘thing’ he had for S—Him. For the first time in a long while John smiled, just a bit, and opened the lobby door to call the next patient._

OoOoOoO

Mary tries to remain calm, to not panic even as her insides tie into knots, while John opens the boot and pulls out the ancient tyre lever.  Stalling as best she can, they manage to banter over the lever until John decides to go off. Anxiety washes over Mary, seeing his back turned and starting to walk; away from her, to Sherlock and what’s-his-face Whitney. She needs him to remain focused on her, the panic rises and she calls out, “Er, John, John, John, John!” He stops for a moment and turns back to look at her. “It’s a tiny bit sexy.”  With slight smile and a snort, John faces away towards the building again replying, “I know” and disappears into the crumbling mess. Mary’s heart twists in agony while she watches him go, knowing that either way, Sherlock or no Sherlock in the drug den, she had gotten herself in too deep. Head in her hands, she pulls herself together; _‘Fuck. Once more unto the breach, I s’pose.’_

OoOoOoO

A.G.R.A. was void of emotion, it’s what made her such an effective assassin; Mary Morstan had far too much emotion in her persona, enough that some permeated Ava-Grace Rachel Albescu’s firm resolve and barriers she’d built. As Mary Elizabeth Morstan truly fell in love with John Hamish Watson, her love bled through and a part of A.G.R.A. began to fall too.

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist on 8tracks.com --> http://8tracks.com/mmaggiea/an-assassin-s-paradigm [Just a slight warning, it is fairly "indie-pop" I suppose? Not all the way through, but just enough that I thought it needed a warning]
> 
> Ariane DeVere transcripts--> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/
> 
> Thank you for reading and comment if you want to let me know how I'm doing, got a question, or want to beta!


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